


All We Need

by hedgehodgy



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: 'family', Abuse, Child Abuse, Gen, Graphic, Hurt/Comfort, Mild torture, Tattoos, Violence, atreus is a sweetie that needs protecting, atreus is nOT OKAY, father/son sweetness, im very late to the god of war bandwagon but oh well, incest? not today sweetie, one-shots/drabbles, purely family stuff, tags to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgehodgy/pseuds/hedgehodgy
Summary: A two-shot that's turned into the place where I'm going to put any God of War pieces that I write.1: An alternate scenario: What if Kratos was absent when the Stranger comes to their house, leaving Atreus to confront him alone?NEW: 3: An AU in which Faye is not the wonderful mother to Atreus that we know her as. She loathes to be raising the child who is prophecised to ruin the world, abusing him in Kratos's absence.It goes on for nine full years - and then the truth comes out.(Man I'm shite at summaries lmao)





	1. The Stranger - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate scenario: What if Kratos was absent when the Stranger comes to their house, leaving Atreus to confront him alone? Part 1 of 2.

Atreus’s breath suddenly sounded very loud in his ears, no matter how hard he tried to quiet himself. Despite his bow in his hand, despite being as silent as possible while convincing himself that he was simply hiding from a creature he was hunting…this wasn’t hunting at all. Atreus himself was the prey, and the Stranger at the door was getting very, very agitated.

“Open up!” he was ordering in a sing-song voice, every beat of his fist rattling the house. “Last chance, I don’t want to fight – oh, well, who am I kidding?! Of course I want to fight! Just tell me what I want to know and it doesn't have to get so bloody!”

Atreus gulped, glancing around at the clearing in front of the house. He expected to see father burst through the trees, mother’s frost axe in hand. No such thing happened, and Atreus realised that he was on this own, a murderous Stranger demanding his father’s presence just a few feet beyond. Atreus asked himself what father would do, knowing he was going to have to bide his time before some sort of help arrived.

_He’d go out and face him. He’d fight._

_I…I could fight, but I don’t know if I’d beat this guy._

_I’ve got a bad feeling. He’s stronger than he looks._

But…what else was there to do?

Atreus had only just managed to squeeze through the gap between the earth and their home’s floorboards; he’d almost gotten himself stuck as he’d wriggled out into the open, into a tiny wedge at the side of the house. He couldn’t go back inside, he couldn’t run without the man spotting him. Atreus tightened his grip on his bow, deciding. _I’d rather try to fight than cower like a baby._ His feet were light and silent on the frozen ground as he took a few steps forwards, until he emerged from the side of the house. His bow was ready, arrow in place, its tip pointed at the man’s head when it finally came into sight. Atreus looked him over, now that he could-

_Oh, he’s much smaller than I thought he’d be. And he’s got no weapons._

“What do you want?” Atreus demanded, trying to feel as brave as he sounded. The Stranger, amber eyes now trained on Atreus, took a few steps back from the door. A smile was brimming beneath his braided beard. “I said, what do you want?!”

“So the beast had an offspring…?” the Stranger muttered, ignoring Atreus’s questions. “Interesting. I knew this would be fun, but…”

“Get out of here before I shoot you,” said Atreus, pointing his arrow very briefly at the gate. His heart was beating faster with every second that passed, the Stranger so nonchalant – almost amused by the way his shoulders swayed. “You hear me? Go!”

“I heard you-,” the man said, taking a step forwards. Atreus had no way to step back without retreating back into the tiny alcove he’d been in, cursing himself already for his tactical mistakes. “-I’d like to see you try, little boy. Go on. Shoot me,”

The thought of shooting the man was both terrifying and overwhelming, especially as he’d been invited to. The Stranger was a man, they were different to animals. Animals were food, it made killing them a necessity if they wanted to survive. The Stranger’s here to hurt father, Atreus had to remind himself, clenching his jaw.

_He’ll hurt me. This is survival, too, just in a different way._

Making his mind up, Atreus let loose the arrow. He closed his eyes and turned away as the tip went thunk into the man’s skull. He waited, hearing father’s voice in the back of his mind. Close your heart to it. He tried, though tears were already on the brink. The Stranger-

…The Stranger hadn’t hit the ground. Atreus had heard the arrow hit its mark, of that he was sure. Turning back around, Atreus felt his eyes widen in horror. The Stranger – the arrow had hit where he aimed alright, right in the centre of his forehead. But the Stranger was still standing, still smiling. He reached up, grasping the arrow’s shaft and yanking it free from his skull. Blood and brain-puss oozed from the hole, which knitted itself back together good-as-new with a wince and a twitch from the otherwise-unfazed man.

“How…?” Atreus breathed. Before he could think about it, he’d notched another arrow and fired that one, too.

In his panic, his aim was off, and it hit the man’s chest instead of his head. It barely knocked him back even a pace; the Stranger tore the arrow from his chest and examined it carefully, twirling it between his fingers. “You want to try one more time, or shall we get down to business?” he invited, crushing the arrow swiftly in his fist. Atreus gaped. “No? Good,”

_Oh man, oh man,_ Atreus thought, ducking under the first swing of a fist in his direction. It hit the side of the house instead, crushing the wooden pole rather than Atreus’s head. _Oh man! Gah, no! No_ –!

“Father!” Atreus shouted, desperate, trying to avoid the man’s next swing. He wasn’t quite as fast, didn’t have quite as much room to work with, as the man’s fist swung up and smashed the underside of Atreus’s chin. His vision whited out; he staggered back, hitting the side of his home.

“Father,” he heard repeated tauntingly overhead. “So, you are the beast’s little boy, are you? Wasn’t the best time to leave you home alone, was it? I wonder, will he come rushing to your aid or will he not care? There’s only one good way to find out,”

Atreus threw himself to the side, rolling across the ground and just barely squeezing through the gap made by the side of the house and the man’s outstretched hands. This was better – he was out in the open, he could move and try to escape. He’d lost his bow, dropping it when the punch had hit him. His jaw felt like it was on fire, blood filling his mouth. _Don’t lose focus_ , Atreus had to tell himself, watching as the man moved on him again, prowling like a beast stalking prey. He was trying to grab him, and he was faster than Atreus. Even when Atreus dove to one side, the Stranger grabbed hold of his legs mid-air – he yanked at his ankles, flipping him on to his back, grinning as he held one of Atreus’s feet in the air in front of his face.

“Let me go!” Atreus roared, kicking his feet all he could, though he could barely even make the Stranger wobble with his efforts. Atreus could tell that this was a losing battle; this was an opponent that had come for his father, not for him, who was he to kid thinking that he could actually fight him. “Father!” Atreus tried again. “Father, help-!”

Atreus’s cry was cut off by a scream torn from his own throat, agony suddenly engulfing his leg. The Stranger examined the ankle he’d caught in his grip, examining its now-broken state.

“Was that loud enough for him to hear, you think?” he asked Atreus. He paused for a few seconds, Atreus’s ragged, whimpering breaths filling the air. “Hmm, perhaps not. We must try again,”

“NO!” argued Atreus, crying with every movement of his leg. The Stranger let it drop and Atreus could finally back away – but he couldn’t stand, there was no chance when his foot was broken. He tried to shuffle instead, using his arms and elbows, glancing behind him as if a weapon would suddenly appear. _Oh_ , he remembered, reaching for his belt. He took his knife and raised it above his head, aimed for the soft spot at the top of the man’s leg, where his thigh met his torso.

In a flash, the knife was knocked out of Atreus’s hands, and a boot hit his nose. He slumped back, bloody and exhausted and wondering where the Hel was father. “I’ll kill you,” Atreus warned the man weakly, barely able to see him leering over him as his vision swayed and blurred. His lips smacked against the onslaught of blood now dripping from his nose, which felt very broken, just like his ankle. “I…I’ll-,”

“Scream for me, little beast,” the Stranger said, Atreus’s own knife glinting between his fingertips. His face was suddenly very close, his beard tickling Atreus’s face. “I need your daddy to pick up his pace getting here – and something to kill time with while we wait,”

Atreus swung with his fists, beating the man’s chest and shoulders. He reached for his face, for his eye-sockets like father had taught him when he’d first had to learn how to fight without weapons – those were his first lessons in combat, all self-defence, for occasions when his parents couldn’t be around to save him. Just like now. _And it’s all doing nothing!_

“What should I break this time?” asked the Stranger, catching one of Atreus’s fists. “A finger? An arm? I’ll avoid your face, I’d hate to ruin it more than it is,” he pinched Atreus’s cheek, wiggling his head before delivering a sharp slap. Atreus grunted, biting back a whimper and an onslaught of curses. “The things that I could do to you, boy – it will be more fun than anything I could do with your father, of that I’m sure. But, alas, you are not why I am here,” The Stranger punched Atreus again, this time in the stomach. Atreus coughed and wheezed as the breath was forced from his longs, forcing him to roll on his side, one arm still caught in the Stranger’s grip.

“S-Screw…” he managed to rasp. “You…”

Overhead, the Stranger was laughing. His hand released Atreus’s, all fingers unbroken. Atreus flinched before another blow could even strike him, anticipating it would be another punch, another slap, maybe a kick to the ribs or-

He really hadn’t expected it to be his own knife shove through his hand, pinning it to the Earth.

The pain was so intense, Atreus couldn’t react. As if trapped in his own body, he wriggled and writhed even though he wanted to scream and lash out. He heard the sound of a little boy beginning to cry, refusing to believe that it could be him who sounded so weak and pitiful. A part of him was glad that father wasn’t here – he didn’t want him to see Atreus in such a pathetic position, completely and utterly overwhelmed by this man.

“I think I hear him coming,” the Stranger told Atreus, close to his ear. “Hold still, little one, I’d like to get his blood really boiling by the time he arrives,”

Atreus didn’t understand what he meant or what he was trying to achieve as the Stranger’s hands moved to his back. They grasped the top of his tunic and tore through the fabric, following its seam all the way down, stripping it away until his back was exposed to the harsh winter winds. Atreus trembled, feeling the man’s palms press flat against his skin, fluttering against Atreus’s rapid breaths. He wanted to beat him, to stab him repeatedly, to cut his hands off so he’d _stop touching him_. But there was nothing that his ragged body could do, broken as it was, dazed was his mind. Nothing except cry a little more, his tears and blood providing some warmth to his rapidly-shivering body. “G-Get off-,”

And then, all of a sudden, the Stranger was overhead no more. He disappeared in a blur of red and grey, a delighted whoop and a familiar, terrifying roar echoing after them.

“Ah-ha! Finally!” Atreus heard the Stranger yell, sounding as jovial as before despite the sound of many things breaking following (what he assumed was) his father’s arrival. “We’ve been waiting for you, beast man! Your boy’s been asking for you, he-,” His voice was cut off by yet another roar, by the sound of large fists pummelling flesh.

_Good_ , Atreus thought, letting his eyes slip shut. He took a quick inventory of injuries, as father had always told him to before passing out. Broken ankle, broken nose, knife through the hand. Lots of bruises, especially face and stomach. It didn’t sound as bad when Atreus simply put it like that in his mind. It gave him the peace he needed to close his eyes, instinctively trusting that his father would take care of the Stranger while he slept.  _Hopefully my head’s not broken and I’ll wake up later…_

Unfortunately, the peace didn’t last for long enough. His vision soon came back to him; a hand grasping his hair, lifting his head from the floor. “Wakey, wakey,” said the Stranger, pulling and pulling on Atreus’s hair until he grunted and struggled. “You’re missing the show, boy!”

“Father?” murmured Atreus, trying to look around. He couldn’t see his father near, but he could feel him. His fury was causing the air itself to boil and bubble, until Atreus’s blood felt cool in comparison. The ground felt as if it were trembling. “F-Fath-,” Atreus’s head dropped as the hand released his hair, switching instead to a foot against his throat. He gasped and writhed, his hand burning with each tiny movement that tugged along the blade impaling his flesh. In a way, the feeling of being choked wasn’t much different to how Atreus had felt anyway, his chest so tight and bruised. The pressure was uncomfortable, especially against the curve of his spine through his neck.

“Slow down, now!” the Stranger called to the trees ahead. “Or I’ll break your little boy’s neck, how’s that? Come here, come look at him, you’ve hardly seen his face!”

Blinking, Atreus could see his father emerging from the trees. He could see that his grey skin was now more crimson than anything, glistening under the afternoon sun. He could see his shoulders heaving, his fists clenched, one of them holding mom’s axe.

“Let. Him. Go,” father growled at the Stranger. “Your quarrel is with me, not the boy,”

“Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy our playing,” said the Stranger, toes curling against Atreus’s throat. His breath, just barely squeezing through his windpipe, hitched and shuddered uncomfortably. “But this is so entertaining, too. I find it quite precious, how delicate the lives of children are; how easily their innocence can be lost. It wouldn’t take much for me to break him, you know,”

Kratos grunted, the axe in his hand flaring with a rush of frost as it lifted into the air. The Stranger began to cackle, his foot pressing down harder. Suddenly, Atreus couldn’t breathe at all. His mouth opened and closed helplessly, his free hand scrabbling at the Stranger’s skinny ankle, nails raking lines down his impenetrable skin. It had no effect on the Stranger, who rested all of his weight on to his foot as he dropped into a crouch over Atreus’s body. “I can see you holding yourself together,” he taunted. Distantly, as Atreus felt himself fading, he felt fingertips trailing up and down his bare back. He felt himself shudder, felt his mouth move in the shape of the word ‘father’ – again and again, switching through all of the languages he knew. The Stranger’s voice became the only thing that Atreus could hear after a few moments.

“Let it go, beast man. Lunge at me. We’ll see together how rapidly I can end him. When I’m done with you, I’ll come back for his body. My kin and I will see that it is taken care of, don’t you worry,”

Atreus’s eyes slipped shut, just as his father was engulfed in flames. Atreus couldn’t hear his animalistic war-cry, but he _felt_ it, reverberating through the earth. Atreus pressed his palms down into the soil the best he could, _feeling it,_ wondering whether the last sensation he was ever going to feel was _really_ going to be his father’s rage.

_At least it’s not directed at me. Small miracles._

_At least I’ve not been apart from mom too long. Maybe she’s waiting for me._

_…I hope the Stranger doesn’t really take my body away._

_I hope father kills him, and then I can kill him again when we meet in Hel. I don’t think this kind of death will send me to Valhalla._

_Oh…That means father won’t be happy, either. I mean, he probably won’t be happy if I die at all, I don’t think. But he’ll be even unhappier if this is how it ends. I barely did anything, I just let myself get beat up, let the Stranger stand on my neck – that’s such a stupid way to die._

_Now that I think about it, I’m sure mom won’t mind waiting for me for a bit longer. She’d probably be pretty mad if this is how I died, too._

_Maybe I should open my eyes…_

_…I don’t know how to open my eyes, though._

_How can I forget that? It’s so easy, just…open._

_Ah, boy. Trying not to die is hard. Who’d have thought?_

_Okay, so, don’t open my eyes just yet. I can’t because my body’s not awake. It’s – oh, it’s not breathing. Yeah, that’s probably the problem._

_I should really try to breathe again._

_The Stranger isn’t above me anymore. The ground, it’s shaking, and father was on fire. Hopefully it’s going bad for the Stranger and good for father._

_Either way, there’s nothing stopping me from breathing now. It’d help if my body didn’t hurt so much. I don’t want to be back there to have to deal with the pain._

_It’s quite nice here, floating…_

_No, wait, stop it. Focus. Breathe._

_There’s stuff I need to do._

_We need to take mom’s ashes to the highest peak in the realm._

_I need to prove to father that I’m ready, that I'm strong._

_I need to stop being so weak._

_That’s a lot of stuff to do. Important stuff._

_So…I think I can handle the pain. I have to. For mom and dad._

_…Man, if I wake up and the Stranger beat father, that’d suck. All this effort would be for nothing…_

_Good job that would never happen, then. Father’s the strongest person ever. No one could ever beat him, not even a stranger who can survive arrows to the brain._

And with that, Atreus opened his eyes. His hand, the one without a knife stabbed through it, spasmed against the dirt. His chest heaved and stuttered, agony rippling through him with every breath, but at least he could be certain of one thing: the Earth had stilled once more. And-

“Atreus?!” father’s voice called. _“Atreus!”_


	2. The Stranger - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate scenario: What if Kratos was absent when the Stranger comes to their house, leaving Atreus to confront him alone? Part 2 of 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of this! Basically a little bit of fluff and sweetness, enjoy :)

 “‘M good,” whispered Atreus, trying to look up at the body looming overhead. He waved his good hand at the one which fretted over him, skimming his skin, feeling for deadly injuries. “I-I’m okay, father. You…y-you beat him?”

“I did,” father answered, his voice softer than anything Atreus had ever heard before. He tried his best to look at father properly but his vision refused to focus. From what he could tell, father was covered in blood. Atreus didn’t know how much of it was his and how much of it was the Stranger’s. At least Atreus’s own blood wasn’t going to create _more_ of a mess when father inevitably helped him out. Not that father would care, anyway – his rough palm, the size of Atreus’s face, swept across his cheek like a ghostly breeze. “You...You are well?” Atreus snorted to himself, but father continued quickly, elaborating, “He has not hurt you more than I can see?”

Atreus had to take a moment to remind himself of everything that had happened, replaying the events in his mind. He smacked his lips, surprised that his mouth felt so dry when it had been filled with so much blood. Maybe it was the suffocating that had dried them out.

“B-Broken ankle,” he told his father. “And…a few bruises,” He didn’t think he had to mention his hand; that part was obvious, his limb as crimson as father’s tattoos when he glanced over at it. Father’s hand made another sweep across his head, this time over his hair; this time, his hand stilled before it could pull away, applying gentle pressure. “N-Nothing too bad, father. I-It was just…”

It hurt to talk so much, so Atreus finished his point by wafting his good hand towards his throat. Father’s head nodded slowly in understanding, his eyes no doubt scanning every inch of Atreus’s body. As if on cue, Atreus felt himself shudder, the cold wind growing ever colder to his battered, unmoving, half-exposed frame. Father’s hand shifted and Atreus wished that the moment could have lasted a little longer, no matter how much it hurt.

“We must move,” father declared, shifting on to his knees. Atreus knew what was about to come and cringed already. “We will heal you and leave. Our home is no longer safe for us,”

“The forest has changed,” muttered Atreus, closing his eyes, searching for a distraction already. The one thing keeping Atreus on the ground was the knife in his hand; a knife which was going to be just as painful to remove as it had been to insert. “I-It’s different, it’s sad, it’s s-scared-,”

Apparently, Atreus’s murmurs were distracting enough for his father to decide the moment was right to yank the knife free. Atreus cried out, his body shuddering, curling in on itself as soon as his trapped hand was free to move. Father held tightly to his shoulder, grounding him as the pain licked its way up Atreus’s arm, burning bright before fizzling out into a steady stream of flames, centred in the middle of his palm. Though Atreus tried desperately _not_ to cry in front of his father, little sobs kept escaping him through his gritted teeth, made worse by the furious onslaught of tears suddenly rushing down his cheeks. He tried to hide his face, turning it into the snow-

And then his father decided to pick him up, hands surprisingly gentle as they slipped beneath Atreus’s body. Beneath his thighs and the top of his bare back, forcing him to roll out of his curled-up position and into his arms. Atreus would have thought it to be strange and uncomfortable being held by his stoic, angry father, who never showed affection for _any_ reason ever. The most physical he’d ever got with Atreus was a push in the right direction whenever Atreus wasn’t moving fast enough for him. This was so _alien_ and new, the proximity of their bodies nearly terrifying to Atreus.

And yet…father’s chest was warm, _hot_ even. His arms were far more comfortable than the blood-soaked, snowy Earth. The sensation of being carried was like being rocked to sleep in his mother’s embrace, as she used to when he’d have night terrors. Atreus’s eyes slipped shut by themselves.

“Do not sleep, boy,” father ordered overhead, Atreus’s skin prickling in the barest warmth provided by their house as they went inside, sheltered from the wind.

Father’s orders were not to be disobeyed; Atreus wrenched his lids open again, as much as it pained him. When they were closed, it was as if his injuries were far away. His hand and his foot especially – his foot was beginning to hurt the more father moved. Thankfully, their home was small and it took father only a few paces to reach Atreus’s bed, where he lay him down with unexpected, but not unwelcome, caution and fragility.

“Alright?” father checked, barely audible. Atreus’s head bobbed slightly, his attention split between his father and the pain his body was currently enduring. “One moment, then,”

Father disappeared for a moment; Atreus couldn’t deny the flash of panic and fear that shot through him when he was lost from his peripheral, such childish and dumb feelings to have. It wasn’t as if father had _left_ , he was probably just finding their medicines and wrappings tucked aside for when one of them was injured. Just because Atreus couldn’t see him didn’t mean that he should be worrying or anything like that. It was stupid.

…But Atreus still hated it. He hated that he couldn’t see his father, that his body hurt too much to even twist his neck or lift it up from his mattress. At least father’s brief absence gave him time to release his sniffles as quietly as possible, smothered against his good hand. When Atreus pulled his hand back, it was smeared with blood and salty tears, and an ache remained in the flesh of his face where his palm had been. Atreus would bet father’s axe that his face had already turned red and purple from the bruises beneath the crusted blood.

“This will be unpleasant, boy,” father warned, returning. There were jars of paste and rolls of gauze in his hands, which he set to the side. “I must clean the wounds to see their damage,”

Just thinking about it made everything sting a little more. “C-Can I go sleep now?” he asked. “Just while you do t-that, I-,”

“No. Until I know your mind isn’t vulnerable, you must stay awake,”

Atreus bit his already-torn-up lip, ignoring the droplet of blood that slipped from between his teeth, curving down his chin in a warm, wet line. Father didn’t ignore it like he did; he swiped it away with his thumb, then cupped Atreus’s jaw. It was the firmest, boldest physical gesture his father had ever made towards him – and it made Atreus want to cry even more than before. He had to _fight_ to hold back the full-blown sobs, breathing unsteadily through his mouth. Somehow through his swimming vision, he could still see father’s eyes. He could see them _glowing,_ as easily as he could also feel them penetrating his soul, a strange connection suddenly bridging between them. It made Atreus feel…he wasn’t sure, but it was nice. He felt his muscles lose a slither of tension.

“This will be unpleasant,” father repeated, this time sounding all soft again. The feeling in Atreus warmed even more. “But it is necessary, understand? You have been strong for this long, you must persist for a short while longer,”

_Strong_. The word made Atreus’s eyes widen. Father – _father_ thought that _he_ was strong. Suddenly, the feeling he had felt like it was about to burst out of Atreus’s chest. He released his lip from between his teeth, let a few sobs slip through. The barrier he’d been trying to maintain collapsed, he let himself nuzzle the hand cupping his face, cuddling into the affection that he’d been scared to acknowledge even _was_ affection, _real_ affection. But, there was no denying what Atreus saw in his father’s eyes, what he felt beaming through the skin touching his.

Father was many things. He was angry and he was powerful and he was focused and he was stern. In this moment, he was also worried and sympathetic…and he was warm, in the same way Atreus was. Most interestingly, there was one more emotion, one more which huddled out of sight. It dwindled with every passing moment but never quite left. Fear.

So, father had been scared. He was worried. He was…well, Atreus didn’t want to make assumptions, but he was certain that father was feeling the same thing Atreus usually felt when he looked at his parents. In any other person, Atreus might have called that feeling ‘ _love’_.

This was _father_ , however. _Fear_ and _concern_ were two big things in themselves. _Love_ was totally off the table – no matter how many things he saw, from father’s incredible strength to the Stranger taking an arrow through the forehead, there were still some things that he just couldn’t believe.

Still…his words had an effect. They kept Atreus grounded as father worked on his injuries. He cut away what remained of his tunic, pressing his fingers along his ribs. He removed his boots and didn’t bother to check his ankle before wrapping it tight. A cloth dripped in mead was swept across both sides of his impaled hand, setting it alight again. Atreus purposefully ignored his father when he was told that it would have to be cauterised later. His hand was also wrapped tightly, along with his ribs when father could convince Atreus to sit up for a few moments and had him take a few deep breaths to prove that his lungs were still in working order.

He lay him back down after that and moved on to his face. There was little he could do for his mouth or nose besides gently wipe them clear of blood and sweat and tears and dirt. Father’s fingers probed Atreus’s scalp, brushing along the shorter sides and sliding through the longer top, finding a lump on the back of his skull which was vigorously examined before being declared nothing too serious. And then, at least, it seemed like they were done.

“Sleep?” Atreus pled. “I-I’ll feel better when I wake up, promise,”

“I’m sure you will,” father replied, reaching across to the bed he shared with mother – or, the bed he _had_ shared with mother. From it he grabbed a thick, black fur, the one that always ended up around Atreus when he was ill or the weather was especially icy. It was no surprise that father wrapped it around Atreus now, consistently gentle with all of his movements. What _was_ surprising was the fact that father then picked Atreus up with one arm, the other arm reaching for satchels and one of Atreus’s tunics and a spare bundle of arrows to be added to his quiver and bow discarded outside.

“Wait,” Atreus began, confused, barely able to stop himself from reaching for his bed. “Father-,”

“It is unsafe here,” said father, his deep voice rumbling through his body, reverberating against Atreus’s chest. “We must make haste elsewhere, lest we want to find trouble again,”

“T-Trouble found us,” muttered Atreus, resigning himself. He was too tired to care anymore. Everything hurt and crying was exhausting. Father carried him with just one arm, holding him under his backside; he was slumped against his chest, head rolling limply into his shoulder when Atreus gave into his sleepiness. The closeness, combined with the furs, made Atreus feel warm and snug.

“You may sleep now,” father said very quietly, stepping back outside into the cold air, tugging the door shut behind them. “I will wake you later,”

Atreus nodded, closing his eyes…He wanted to sleep, but there were things to say. “Sorry, father,”

Father didn’t stop walking, paces long and fast, but they did waver for a moment. He grunted in question and Atreus felt a fond smile play on his lips. _I know_ loads _of languages while father knows only two: common tongue and grunts. Heh._ “Sorry,” he said again. “I-I couldn’t fight the Stranger. He got me s-straight away,”

“It is not your fault,” father said, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “He was…strong. Incredibly so. He came for me alone,”

“I shot him in the head. I-It didn’t bother him,”

“…Did it bother you?”

Atreus considered it, eyes fluttering, his good hand lifting to wrap itself around the armour strapped to father’s other shoulder. “At first,” he admitted. “T-Then he was fine and I-I realised…” _that I was screwed. That I could maybe be killed? I…Man, that was all so crazy. I almost_ died!

“It will not happen again,” father told him, beard scraping Atreus’s temple as he spoke. “I should not have left in the first place; that battle should never have been yours,”

“You couldn’t have known,” whispered Atreus. Father didn’t say anything, and Atreus knew what he was thinking. “I-It’s okay, father. I knew you’d come soon. I knew _you_ could beat him,”

Father still didn’t say anything, not even to that. But, Atreus could have sworn that he felt the arms that held him tighten. He nuzzled closer into the bare, but _very_ warm, shoulder, feeling on the precipice of sleep. But before he could drop and truly melt away, a question occurred to him. “F-Father? Was that man a god?”

There was a beat of silence before his father answered. “I believe so,”

_Wow_ , Atreus thought. It made a lot of sense, he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t considered it before. He wanted to figure out which god it could have been, but his mind was so heavy, and his father was so very comfy. “What does a god want with us? W-With you?”

Considering how _different_ father had been acting so far, Atreus had hopes that he would continue to surprise him and maintain a conversation with him for more than a minute. Alas, father didn’t say anything else. He grunted and shifted his grip on Atreus, as if purposefully choosing to roll his head from his shoulder into the crook of his neck. _Okay_ , Atreus relented, sinking into it. _That’s fair enough for now, I guess. I’ll ask again when I wake up_ … _though hopefully that’s not for a while. I like it here, like this. It feels…_

And that was the last thing Atreus thought before sinking into the beckoning arms of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read this, it was a real pleasant surprise to wake up to a few notes and comments this morning! Please let me know if you enjoyed and maybe hit me with some prompts. I can't guarantee I'll get around to finishing anything more, but plotting for other things is fun nonetheless (and also discussing with others how precious these two can/should be)!  
> Anyway, I hope that this was a good read for some people. Thanks again :D


	3. Tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus decides to give himself further tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally wrote this without much effort lmao. It's short and sweet and doesn't have much action, but it's a little cute thing nonetheless. Hope you enjoy :)

The book in front of Atreus is laden with piles of rocks on each corner, keeping the pages down in the pestering wind. The rocks may ruin the delicate parchment with their dirt and sharp edges, but the sacrifice was worth it. So long as Atreus's work is accurate and complete, he can ignore the suffering of a few page corners.

His arm burns with every tap of the needle into his skin, but he refuses to falter, knowing that if he messes this up, it’s messed up for _good_. His eyes dart between the images on the page and the copies he’s making on his skin, pausing occasionally to wipe away the blood and to check his handiwork is still going right. Atreus continues, trying not to rush but also trying to be finished  _soon,_  so at least he won’t have to continue tomorrow and risk losing today's steady and creative hand. There was also the risk that he might not have time to finish tomorrow, if his father decides on a spontaneous trip somewhere.

“What are you doing, boy?”

Atreus's shoulders raise in alarm, glancing back at the house. Father stands in the doorway, frowning as always, large arms folded over his chest.

“Um…I thought you were working?” Atreus asks.

Father’s frown deepens with every step closer. Atreus sighs once he's near enough, knowing that he’s been caught out, and turns his attention back to his arm. He taps the needle into his skin, again and again, watching the ink get caught beneath his flesh.  _I might as well_ , he relents.  _He can see them now_.

“You are giving yourself tattoos,” Father observes, reaching Atreus’s back. “You-,” He stops, and Atreus knows that he’s spotted the contents of his book.

“I've got rune tattoos on this arm from mom,” Atreus explains rapidly, waving the arm that holds the needle. “I, um, I figured…my other arm’s still all empty. And I wasn’t sure what runes I could put on it, since I’ve already got all I need. Then I found all these symbols and…” Atreus shrugged, feeling a little awkward the more that Father stared. He was still, suddenly, very quiet as he moved around, crouching besides Atreus.

Atreus tries to stay focused as Father looks over the book, fingers skimming the symbols that Atreus is copying. His hand drifts right over the symbol that Atreus is currently studying and copying. “I need to see that one,” scolds Atreus, bravely waving his father’s hand away. Checking he’s still along the right track, Atreus gets back to it. Tapping the needle again and again and again.

Only, Father's gaze turns and focuses on him again. His hand on Atreus’s wrist keeps him from tapping anymore.

“Let me see,” he says, and it’s not a request.

Atreus holds out his arm, rolling his eyes as if exasperated. He tries to play off the embarrassment of being caught by Father as he tattoos Ancient Greek symbols on his arm. He’d hoped that Father wouldn’t notice until many moons later – Atreus had taken _this_ opportunity to do the tattoos for a reason, as Father was finally fixing the house after Baldur's first visit. He’d taken a bet on Father fixating himself stubbornly on his task for the whole day and paying no attention to Atreus; a bet which hadn’t paid off very well. Now he had to explain _why_ he’d chosen these quite personal symbols to his emotionally-isolated father.

“Home,” Father says, touching the symbol at the top of Atreus’s outer forearm – the first in the line of them he was creating, from elbow to wrist. His finger travels down, analysing every line Atreus had made. “Journey. Perception. What is this one?”

“It’s gonna be ‘Protect’,” says Atreus, wishing Father would go away so he could finish it.

“These are symbols from my homeland, boy. Why have you chosen them?”

Atreus’s eyes slip shut for a moment, exasperated by Father’s questioning. They were going to stray dangerously into _emotional_ talk if they continued down this path.

“I have mother’s runes,” he says, waving his arm again. “I wanted something for you, I guess. Giants on one arm, Spartans on the other. It’s…who I am, y’know? Both sides of my blood,” He pauses, watching Father’s immobile expression. Atreus remembers one of the main reason’s he’d been afraid of Father spotting the tattoos so soon and feels a shock of panic go through him. “Are you mad? That I’m…tattooing reminders of your old home on me?”

“You have never known that land, never will,” Father says quietly. “It is _meant_ to be in the past,”

“So you _are_ mad,” guessed Atreus, deflating. _Well, shit…_

He knew he should have gone to Father first, to talk to him about it. They could have established that it wasn’t a good idea to stick blatant reminders of Father’s despised past on his skin permanently. Atreus felt stupid, and embarrassed…especially because when he’d found this book, he’d been _so_ excited. Excited to learn about his father’s birthplace, his heritage, the world he might have known if not for…well…

Only, much to Atreus’s surprise, Father catches his hand when he tries to drop his needle on the dirty earth. “I am not ‘mad’,” he says, eyes piercing and sharp. “I am…taken aback. I have not seen these symbols in many years, I did not expect to – no less on the skin of my Nordic son,”

“Oh,” says Atreus, shifting. “So…what does that mean? You’re surprised and _going_ to get angry later, or surprised and just don’t care?”

Father’s lips twist beneath his beard; Atreus has never seen him so conflicted. “You acknowledge both sides of your birth,” he said, slowly. “It is…admirable of you to do that?”

Atreus almost smiles at his father’s uncertainty. “I was gonna do ‘honourable’ next,” he says, pointing to the book. Maybe if he justifies the reasons behind each symbol, they can skim over Father's distaste of anything related to his past. “I’ve done ‘home’ and ‘journey’, because I love my home, and we’ve been on some _amazing_ journeys. I’ve done ‘perception’, because that’s what you say I always need and my weapon is the bow. I’m doing ‘protect’ now, because that’s what I want to do when I’m older and can do things by myself. And I want to be ‘honourable’ – a _good_ god! A-And then I was thinking maybe ‘love’ and ‘warrior’ last…for mom and you,”

A soft grunt comes from Father, his thumb brushing across the ‘home’ symbol again. “Your mother is more than a symbol of ‘love’, boy. She too was a warrior,”

“I know. Both of those symbols are for _both_ of you,”

The thumb stills. Atreus holds his breath as Father glances up at him, meeting his gaze. It is held for only a moment before Father looks away again, releasing Atreus’s arm. “I see. Then I will not keep you from your work,” He rises to his feet, his hand on Atreus’s head as if using him as a lever to assist himself. Atreus doesn’t feel any pressure on his head, however, and smiles fully at the disguised little gesture. The relief he felt was intoxicating and he couldn’t stop himself from wriggling his head under Father’s hand, mussing up his own hair – just to let him know that he _knew_.

“Do you not want anymore tattoos, Father?” Atreus asks before the man could walk away. He waved the needle excitedly at him, a little giddy that his Greek tattoos had been accepted by his Greek father, especially considering how _risky_ the gesture was. “You’ve got _tonnes_ of space – you could fit on _loads_ on just one arm!”

“Your mother tried to convince me to take on more many years ago,” answers Father, shaking his head. “The ones that I bare are enough for me,”

“Do they have any meaning?” Atreus probes, curious. “I tried to compare them to the symbols in this book, but I couldn’t find anything,” In truth, Atreus had always wondered whether his father’s tattoos came from. Father wasn’t the kind of person to change his body to match a certain aesthetic – everything he did was within reason. He was sure that the reasoning behind his tattoos had to be distinctly personal, for them to be so…vivid.

Father, however, doesn’t seem ready to divulge that secret today. “Do not sit out here for hours,” he instructs, walking away. “The weather will soon worsen,”

“It’s okay,” Atreus smiles, ignoring the change-of-subject. “You can tell me about it another time. Whenever you’re ready,”

Something strange flickers across Father’s expression. He nods once and retreats inside, the sound of a hammer working nails into the wooden beams of their home soon echoing after. Atreus turns his attention back to his arm, to his needle, which he _tap-tap-taps_ into his skin, rhythmically following the guide that the book gave him to designing the symbols. He’d tried to choose a bunch that reflected the things most important to him – he was glad that Father hadn’t shouted at him. It felt good, especially since Atreus was very blatantly expressing how fond he was of his father on his skin. Father typically rejected those kinds of gestures...but not this this time.

His parents were great warriors and Atreus loved them, _both_ of them. He finishes up the last of his new tattoos some hours later and skips inside to help Father finish the very last bits of home-reparations before the storms could blow in – knowing that he’d get a decent story from the old Spartan _someday_ , whenever the time was right.

Atreus looks forward to that time, his newly-tattooed arm tingling readily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being purposefully a little ambiguous with the time-frame of events - this is after the game's end, but without references to Fimbulwinter and stuff. Mimir's missing purely by accident.  
> I'm working on more pieces and have a whole list of ideas, I just need to maintain this flow of inspiration and functionalism and hopefully I'll add some more work to this collection soon.  
> Thanks for reading, please leave kudos/a comment :)


	4. Loathed and Loved - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU in which Faye is not the wonderful mother to Atreus that we know her as. She loathes to be raising the child who is prophecised to ruin the world, abusing him in Kratos's absence.  
> It goes on for nine full years - and then the truth comes out.  
> (Man I'm shite at summaries lmao)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote this instead of doing work for university (as apparently most of my GoW fanfics come out of my arse when I've got important work due).  
> I fell out of writing GoW for a while but I'm now back with a three-shot! I'm rounding to the end of Part 2 right now, after spending literally all day writing it (including on the train home from uni). Let's hope I defo get it finished (+ Part 3 to conclude it all) within the next few days, otherwise I'm gonna hate myself haha.  
> Big thanks to SamLovesHam1234 for suggesting this - I wrote it eventually! (And hopefully you think it's relatively decent!)  
> Enjoy!

“Take him,” pleaded Faye. “Kratos, _take him_ , for a few moments at least,”

Kratos eventually obeyed, with reluctance, feeling a fair amount of terror over the chance of him hurting the too-small bundle of furs as he took him from his wife. The child was small enough to fit in a single one of his palms, but he’s sure to cradle them in both, nervous and cautious. A button nose and dark eyelashes were all Kratos could see of his child’s face within his swaddled confines; already, he had a little bit of colour in the face that was initially blue and then deathly white.

Kratos had never had a _favourite colour_ of any kind, but he decided suddenly that it had to be that rosy red hue.

“So what will it be?” Kratos asked his wife softly, not yet glancing up from the slumbering child. He wanted to hand him back already but something strange stilled him. “Loki or Atreus?”

Faye’s smile was small and tight, her face still lined with stress and pain. “You decide,” she said softly. “I-I think I have done enough work for today,”

Their discussions of names for their child had been few and far between. For seven months, they had both been worried over the pregnancy and the problems of raising a child in such a harsh climate. They had both decided not to get their hopes up for a strong and healthy child – particularly when the babe had started to suggest it premature arrival a couple of days ago, too many weeks too soon. The labour had been long and torturous and when the child had finally been born, his chances at living had seemed poor.

There was nothing for them to do but hold the child against their chests and hope for the best – whether that be working lungs or a merciful end. Kratos was still in awe, many hours later, that it was the former which had come true. And it raked him with fear to imagine any alternative.

He had to shut it out, shut the boy out. He _could_ _not_ handle the loss of another child. He could not afford to feel hope, only to have it snatched away again. Kratos had to…he had to provide for his family and see them well-fed and warm and safe and have that be it. That would be his duty.

...But…His duty did not have to begin immediately. It could begin in a short while, _after_ he had had this moment.

“Atreus,” he murmured, deciding with finality on the name. A kinder man would have chosen his wife’s half-hearted suggestion of ‘Loki’, to at least acknowledge her pivotal role in bringing this life into the world. That being said, Kratos could not look at the boy and call him _Loki_ , not even in his head. It did not fit, at least not yet. _Perhaps he would grow into, it in a way. At least ‘Atreus’ is more…_

‘Atreus’ was perfect. Both the name and the boy. And it was _hurting_ Kratos. He had to get through this, quickly.

“We will protect you,” he whispered, to the babe and the babe alone. “No matter what it takes, we will…we will do what is best. Whatever will spare you and see you comfortable,”

He chose his words carefully, making sure not to make any false promises. Protecting the child was something of a no-brainer – easy to swear upon. No physical dangers would come within even the far vicinity of the homestead, so long as Kratos was around. The second two things…Kratos had to acknowledge how weak and small his child was. He knew the look of children like him and he knew what people from his culture did with them. If things were not so different in these lands, perhaps he and Faye would have already been scouting for a peaceful, but adequately cold, mountainside. Kratos could not force himself to make the suggestion to his wife even if he wanted to.

( _And he_ didn’t _want to, with all his being)_

They had to give him _some_ time to try and persevere. He had already lived for a couple of hours, against their expectations. Perhaps he would continue to surprise them – not that Kratos was holding out hope, he reminded himself repeatedly. He was simply acknowledging the possibility. And promising the boy that he wouldn’t draw out his pain and suffering, if it were unnecessary.

All of it was incredibly difficult. Difficult to take in, to process, to settle in his mind. Kratos could hardly think straight, torn between reverent focus on his babe and his careful thought processes concerning his future wellbeing. All that Kratos knew for certain was that he had to move on, now; there was work to be done.

“Here,” he whispered, leaning towards his wife with their child held out between them, deciding that his minutes holding him were up. Any longer, and he wasn’t sure what kind of trouble he would be getting himself into.

For the smallest moment, Faye winced and tried to shift away, as if recoiling from the babe. Kratos supposed that she could not be blamed, if she too was debating how soon the pain of losing him would come upon them. Maybe she did not want to hold him for the same reason as Kratos, for fear of becoming attached too soon.

As soon as the reluctance had shown itself, however, it was gone. Faye sighed tiredly and accepted the boy into her arms, bringing him against her breast. The two of them, _together,_ made embers crackle warmly in Kratos’s frozen heart.

“I will be outside,” he told her quietly, frightened of waking the child from his slumber. “Crafting the knives,”

“You still want to do that?” asked Faye, gazing at him from behind heavy eyelids. “Even though…”

Kratos cut her off with a flat look. He knew as well as his wife that creating a gift for his son, who was so unlikely to live for long, would only be a reminder of their heartbreak once ( _if)_ he was gone. It would be unnecessarily sentimental, a distracting reminder of what could have been. There was no purpose to it.

And yet, if the child _did_ live…then Kratos wanted him to have something one day, to commemorate his strength and life. Something of substance and value, something that would be handy to him, something that would…Kratos couldn’t express the sentiment properly, as he had never been good with words. Something that defined his heritage. Twin knives crafted from metals of both this Baltic land and the land of Greece was sure to represent something deep and meaningful. When the boy was older, he would wield the weapon made for him by his father. If he passed, they would bury him with it, so as to always protect him. Kratos would wield the knife’s twin, for as long as the pain was not crippling.

As well as all that, Kratos just needed an excuse to escape.

“Call for me if necessary,” he murmured to his wife, leaning down to press a kiss to her moist hair, brushing the scarlet tendrils back from her sweating forehead.

Faye nodded once, eyelids already fluttering, her grip on Atreus seeming to loosen. Kratos forced himself to turn and march away before he found himself fretting. _She would not drop him_ , Kratos knew, pausing to feed a few more logs to the firepit in the middle of the room to stave off the chill. _She is a natural with him; she would die to protect him._

Kratos’s wife was fierce and strong. If there were any woman in the world that he would want to raise and protect his child, it was her. It helped that he loved her dearly, and he could picture nowhere else in the world where he would rather exist right now, at this very moment in time. Had Kratos’s godly abilities come with that of freezing time, he would have almost certainly done so, no matter the consequences.

With that thought, Kratos hurried out of the door so as to prevent too much of the bitter cold penetrating the house – glancing one more time at his wife and his son, contentedly huddled together on their bed.

* * *

 

“He is covered in bruises. Is that normal?”

“Hm, yes, I think so. It can happen when one has a weak constitution – any small bump can mark them. It’s been like that for a few days now, no matter how much I swaddle him,”

For all that she loved and cherished her husband, Faye sometimes wanted to gloat at how easy it was to fool him. At her words, he sighed and nodded and turned his back to the boy in the crib, taking up his well-worn axe and disappearing outside to chop firewood – as had been his intention when he had first crossed the room, only to become distracted by the gurgling child as he passed his crib. Soon enough, he would likely be gone on another hunt.

Faye dreaded his departures. She dreaded to be alone with the boy, the child he had named _Atreus_ , their son who-

_No,_ Faye told herself firmly, shaking her head as she picked herself up from the floor where she had been idly – and reluctantly – making dinner. _Do not think of the prophecy. Gods, but it will drive me insane if I think of it anymore._

It was difficult, however, to banish the thoughts of the future out of her mind when the child of which it spoke of slept besides her bed and fed from her breast. It was even more difficult to loathe him for the destruction he would cause, when he was still so small, innocent, helpless. His eyes brightened briefly at the sight of his mother leaning over his crib, though his cooing didn’t quite match the enthusiasm it had had when Kratos had peered down at him. The blue twinkle in his eyes faded as he registered the deep frown on his mother’s face.

Faye reached with a finger to stroke one of the bruised cheeks her husband had mentioned. The child – who was only a few moons old, still – caught her finger in one chubby fist as if he knew what she wanted. As if to stop her.

“Release me,” Faye ordered quietly. She wouldn’t let the babe test her, no matter how young or clueless he was. She jerked her finger free and pinched at some of the pale flesh at the hollow of the child’s neck. Immediately, he squealed, batting her away with those tiny hands again.

_What am I doing?_ Faye thought, not for the first time, wrenching herself away and pacing frantically across the room. She felt jittery, erratic, her heart thumping as her body was flooding itself with adrenaline, ready for a fight. _He’s a babe, a helpless babe. He cannot help who he is, what he will be, he has no idea-_

_But the day will come when he_ does _know. No matter how weak he becomes, he recovers each time. There is a strength in him which frightens me and will be the death of all of Midgard._

_I should do something. I should_ have _done something already. I should have ended it, a long time ago._

She pinched the boy’s skin when she couldn’t decide what to do. She pinched him when she didn’t know how she felt about him. She pinched him when he annoyed her with his crying and wailing. She pinched him when he cooed and gazed up at her with eyes full of hopeful love, daringly trying to endear him to her. She pinched him when he was sleeping and his peaceful silence made her suspicious.

To be fair, Faye had not really lied to her husband. Weak constitutions did prompt easier bruising, and their child was indeed weak. _Simply not weak enough._

Gods, how it hurt Faye _every day_ to look at the child and struggle to cope. She loathed being alone with him, which always ended up with her pacing, ranting, crying, pulling at her hair and trying to _decide!_ Kratos, when he was at home, was a distraction that she savoured (and she made sure to express to him how grateful she was for that, lavishing him in her attentions). If only he would trade places with her, just one time, allowing her to disappear for a week into the open forest. She would be _free_ , for the first time in moons. And Kratos was not suited to fatherhood, not really; it was likely that the babe would be dead of _something_ within a few days of being alone with him.

The thought almost made her snicker. She stopped herself. _What’s wrong with me? He’s a monster, yes, but a_ child _-_

_My child. Gods, what have I done? What am I_ doing? _! I’m hurting him, I’m allowing him live-?!_

“Oh, come here,” Faye sighed, lifting Atreus from his crib and holding him tight. He whimpered and squirmed in her grip. When he had first been born, he had been more than happy to cuddle against her – he knew that she was his mother, that she had given him life and that she would give him his warmth and his food. As he got older, he seemed to realise the reservations that his mother held towards him. He knew that her hands more often meant pinching and hard poking rather than sweet caresses.

It broke Faye’s heart, for her child to be afraid of her. And yet it also made her feel good to know that the boy who would rue the world was already complacent under her thumb.

She could control him. She could subdue him, before he had a chance to gather his strength. Despite her husband’s beliefs, prophecies could not be changed or neglected – and she had not told him of _this_ one for that very reason. He would push her aside, exasperated by the gods-written truth and angry at her for believing it. Kratos was all that was keeping Faye sane right now. Looking forwards to his return gave her the ability to breathe when her chest felt so tight; it stayed her hands when she held a pillow over the baby’s face, knowing how easy it would be to put an end to it all. When he was home, she could manage a few days of caring for the child – for a few days, their home was quiet and calm and relaxed. No threats of death hung over them.

_What would happen if I_ did _put an end to it? Prophecies_ cannot _be rewritten, so if the boy died…? What then?_

Besides that, Kratos would know what she did. She could lie about _some_ things, yes, but that…that would be too much. And Kratos would not understand why she had to do it; he would not accept the excuse of a world’s end as a reason for killing their child. He was that kind of man. His love for the babe was far larger and far deeper than he cared to admit to himself (and it _certainly_ surpassed Faye’s love). Faye could see that, plain as day. Thus another reason why she couldn’t bring herself to rid herself of the boy. She did not think that her husband would cope with the loss, no matter what he told himself.

He would not stand by while she inflicted pain upon the child, either. And so Faye cradled him, bouncing him and humming to him, swaddling him in furs and stepping outside. From the doorway she watched her husband swing his axe over his head, bringing it down upon innocent logs with a cry that she was sure was put on for a dramatic effect. The thought made her smile, _almost_ chuckling, which drew Kratos’s attention.

His golden eyes flared with something ancient and warm at the sight of her; the expression then deepened when his eyes moved to the baby, pausing there for a moment before returning to the logs.

Jealousy burned in the pit of Faye’s stomach as she watched his face change, a frown replacing her smile as soon as her husband’s attention was elsewhere. _And so he will take my husband_ and _end the world_ , she thought, glaring down at the child. He was watching the sky through the trees above, silent and still – almost _stiff_ – in Faye’s hold.

_Oh, my son, you’ll never know how difficult you have made my life. If only you were more god-like at birth – perhaps then your father would hate you, as much as I do, and then there would hardly be a problem between us._

_…How can a mother both love and loathe her son? And feel both emotions so fiercely?_

It was a question that Faye had been asking herself everyday since the child’s birth, since she had first held him and seen behind her eyes brief flashes of the future – of _Ragnarok_ and the child in her arms heading it. Returning inside after just a couple of minutes of lingering in the doorway, Faye kissed the child’s forehead and hugged him tight, her fingers absently plucking at the downy red curls atop his head until strands of it were falling to the floor. The boy began to cry and she sighed, sitting down and offering him a teat to feed from. He struggled and fussed, lips smacking everywhere; when Kratos came to the door to check on the source of the tears, he flashed her a sympathetic look which she waved away with false affection.

Kratos disappeared, assuming the boy was simply grumpy and being fussy, unable to make the distinction between cries of pain and cries of everything else. Faye pulled on the baby’s hair again once he was gone, until there were bald patches all across his scalp – to be easily excused as a side-effect of his illnesses – and brushed away the evidence with her bare foot. She forced her teat into the baby’s mouth, holding him there until he latched and began to suckle, whimpering but now much quieter.

The boy was proving relatively easy to bend, for now. _I’ll just have to keep it up._

“There, love,” she whispered, smiling fondly. “That’s better, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry,”

She meant it. She _was_ sorry. But also, she wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

* * *

 

Atreus’s favourite thing was his dreams. He _loved_ dreams – he loved the feeling of being somewhere else, somewhere magical. He loved talking to the mythical animals and flying through orange skies and swimming through pink lakes and sitting in a library full of more books that he could count. The only downside to his dreams was that they ended in that library every single time, just as he was plucking a book from the shelf and sitting down to read it. He’d open the first page and – _poof!_ He was awake.

Atreus’s _second_ favourite thing was his father. Or, more specifically, his father coming home. Father was gone so often and usually for so long, and for every day that he was gone, Mother got sadder. Also angrier and snappier. When Father would appear at the gate fencing off their little homestead, she would whoop and laugh and run into his arms. And then Father would always abandon the game he was carrying just to catch her. It was as close as he ever got to smiling, _ever_. And it was the _only_ time that Mother smiled, Atreus knew that for certain.

When Father was around, things were good. Mother would have her good days and brush her hand through Atreus’s hair more often then not, even letting him cuddle into her side when he felt like it. Father would sometimes bring something for Atreus back with him on his hunt, usually a little wooden toy that he had carved in his free time. As he got older, the toys were coming less and less – but Atreus didn’t mind, because that meant that he’d sooner be a man and be able to do _proper_ work! Still; receiving one of those toys was often the highlight of Atreus’s moon. There hadn’t yet been a night when Atreus hadn’t slept with one of the harsh and scratchy wooden toys in his bed with him, cuddled to his chest as if they were soft toys.

And that was why Atreus’s favourite thing was his father – because he sometimes brought toys and he made Mother smile and he sometimes gave Atreus a look which was _almost_ a smile and he was always kind of looking out for him. His tiny nods of approval at the things Atreus did were like gold dust. He _treasured_ them.

With the awesomeness that was his father, there also came some major downsides, however. Like with Atreus’s dreams, where opening a book always equalled the end; when Father disappeared again to go hunting, _everything_ went bad. Or, at least, bad in Atreus’s book.

Mother lost her smiles and her laughs and her skin felt hard as stone. The nights felt colder, her criticisms were louder, the forest lost its brightness and days would pass by in an uncertain limbo. It usually took Mother a few days from Father’s departure for her to decide how she wanted to be.

Sometimes, she would be soft and lovely and she would take Atreus into her arms and wrap him in blankets and keep him snuggled indoors.

Sometimes, she would ignore him completely, going about the next lot of days – until Father’s return – in absolute silence, as if no one else lived in the homestead with her, as if Atreus did not exist.

And _sometimes,_ she was…well, she was _mean._ Atreus knew that she was mean, because _everything_  seemed to disapprove when she acted that way. The trees would cry out when she struck him, usually knocking him to the floor with a backhand. They whimpered with him as she pressed her foot against a limb, her weight teetering back and forth, threatening to break it. And when she pulled out the strap, they positively _screamed_ , begging Mother to stop hitting Atreus with it just as much as Atreus was begging himself-

After yesterday, Atreus hadn’t since left his bed. His back stung with indescribable pain, his flesh torn up by the leather, the wounds covered in a burning poultice that Mother had applied herself when she had heard his quiet weeping. Despite cracking the leather strap so ferociously the day before, she had cried with him and hugged him and whispered apologies to him just that morning. And then she had wrapped him up tightly in a blanket – _too_ tight – and ordered him not to move until he healed.

Atreus knew what that meant. That meant that he would not be seeing the sun for a couple of weeks, until the lashes on his back were firmly scabbed over.

At the sound of an excited squeal outside, Atreus felt himself smile. _He’s back!_ How he itched to join his Mother outside to greet his Father. They never hugged like he and Mother did, but Father would always at least glance in his direction and grunt and nod. And that was enough for Atreus.

He liked that Father was, at least, consistent.

After a couple of minutes, the door to the home opened and his parents entered. They were both huge, hulking figures, twice the height of Atreus and probably four times as wide as him. Atreus wouldn’t lie – their masses _did_ frighten him, especially when he was lay down in a bed, even closer to the floor. A part of him trembled as Father approached, his shadow easily covering Atreus’s body like a _huge_ blanket.

At least now, for a few days, Atreus wouldn’t have to worry about his Mother stalking menacingly towards him in that sort of fashion. For the moment she was sorting out Father’s gear, hanging up his packs and beaming with residual happiness at their reunion. Atreus felt a spike of envy.  _I wish I could feel like that, just one time, so I knew what it was like. It seems nice._

“Boy,” Father said overhead. “How…do you feel?”

Mother must have told him that he was sick again. Atreus silently lifted his shoulders under his blanket, just enough for Father to see, before burrowing half of his face behind the fur and feeling _actually_ sick with nerves.

If there was one thing Mother was always certain of, it was that Father was not to hear about his punishments. She said that he wouldn’t want to hear about his poor behaviour after finally coming home – it was the last thing he would want to think about. So when Atreus was hurt, like he was now, she simply told him he was ill. Atreus went along with it in silence, agreeing with the fact that they shouldn’t bother his Father (or, even worse, make _him_ angry at Atreus, too). Though he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

Mother didn’t like it when he spoke in her presence, or Father’s. So Atreus was generally, _always,_ silent. He just nodded whenever Mother wanted him to nod, so that she would be pleased with him.

Father, letting a long sigh out of his nose, briefly touched his rough fingers to Atreus’s forehead – feeling for a temperature, which was by now a very familiar gesture. Considering how tightly Atreus was wrapped up in his furs, and how fevered his wounded back made him feel (coping with the pain was making him sweat and gasp), he must have been giving off enough heat for Father to nod along with the _illness_ story.

He strayed away from the bed after that, walking towards Mother. Atreus sighed and tried desperately to block out the feelings of longing and jealousy and sadness. Mother said that they were all stupid feelings when he had mentioned them to her once (before her ban on speaking at any time had been imposed), that _he_ was stupid for feeling them. Atreus put enough strain on their family for being another mouth to feed – he shouldn’t be causing trouble by feeling so many things. Especially towards _Father_ , stoic as the man was with anyone but Mother.

Reaching her side, Father reached out and touched Mother’s waist, drawing her attention. Atreus closed his eyes. Father spoke quietly, as if to prevent him from listening in, but Atreus still heard, “His speech has still not advanced, then?”

Atreus imagined the flat look Mother was likely giving Father. “No. Obviously not,” she said. “I would have told you if anything had changed. If anything, it's all going downhill. He rarely makes more than a couple of little sounds, nowadays,”

There was a long pause and a grunt. There was no telling what that meant from Father.

“I’m almost certain that he’s…” Mother’s fingers snapped rapidly, her brain obviously trying to think of the right word. “He’s not _right_ in his head, Kratos. I-I think with all his illness, it’s stunted him-,”

“The boy is no cripple, if that is what you are implying,”

“ _No,_ not that word exactly. Just…He should be more mentally advanced, by his age. Yet he acts like a babe still. I told him 'Father will be home soon!' and he simply could not comprehend what it meant! I just fear that this is the way he will always be – never more than a child, you know?”

Father’s gaze was on Atreus, he could _feel_ it. It was heavy and intense and uncomfortable. He wriggled under the covers, pulling them completely over his head, however that did nothing to hide himself from his Father’s eyes.

Another grunt and that was it for that conversation.

_I don’t…_ feel _like I’m ‘stunted’_ , Atreus thought to himself beneath the furs, frowning. _And I_ know _I can talk okay, for sure, Mother just says that I_  shouldn't. _S-She never told me that Father was coming home, and I'd have_  known _what she meant! Why does she have to lie all the time? A-And I_  know _I like books and letters and stuff, and I used to like tell stories to my toys all the time until Mother made me to stop it and..._

Later that evening, Atreus couldn’t sleep. His back was burning, the long, broad lines left by the strap leaving him squirming. Mother’s snores filled the room; Father was silent, as always, but Atreus could just about hear the long, slow breaths from the bed adjacent to his. He tried to minimise his own noises, biting back gasps and whimpers every time he shifted, not wanting to risk waking anyone up. Mother would be _upset_ if he did.

Atreus must have lay there for hours, unable to find any proper respite. He eventually grew so bored – and so sick of the pain – that he reached down for one of his toys propped next to his bed. Bringing it under his covers, he whispered to it in one of the languages he knew from the many books Mother had stashed everywhere - which he would steal in the night and read to himself, savouring the pretty tales they told.

_“Do you think I’m stunted, Mr Rabbit?_ ” he asked, pretending that the wooden rabbit was hopping across his mattress very slowly. _“Because I don’t. Or, maybe I just think ‘stunted’ means something else and I got the wrong meaning of it from a book. Yeah, that’s probably it. Hey, you know, I had a dream of turning into a rabbit once-,_ ”

Atreus was suddenly cut off by the blanket being tore away from over his head. His immediate reaction was to gasp and recoil, fearful of some kind of pain – Mother didn’t like it when he disrupted her sleep.

But, it wasn’t Mother. And no pain came. Golden eyes were staring down at him, _glaring_ almost.

“Boy,” Father rumbled through the room’s darkness. Atreus had never heard his voice sound so quiet before, and wondered how he managed it when his voice was so (usually) rough. “What are you doing?”

_Oh, oh, I hope he didn’t hear me talking._ Wordlessly, Atreus lifted his rabbit figure – one of the first toys in his little collection. Something bad flared in Father’s eyes.

“You should be asleep, not playing,” he scolded, still very quiet, taking the rabbit from Atreus’s hands. Immediately, Atreus panicked that he would take the rabbit away forever – and he _loved_ the rabbit – and let out a small, sharp keen of protest. One of Father’s eyebrows lifted as he slowly placed the rabbit on the floor again, besides its other wooden comrades. Atreus's hands dropped in surprise. _Oh. Mother usually puts them in the fire if she catches me._ “You can play in the morning,”

Relieved beyond words, Atreus let his head fall heavily on to his pillow. He brought his blanket close to him again, wrapping himself up in it protectively, growing more and more uncertain as Father’s stare went on.

He had yet to see his Father’s famous bad temper; he wondered how long he would have to wait. _Is this it? Is he gonna-?!_

“What were you saying to it?” Father asked suddenly, nodding his head down towards the rabbit.

Atreus felt his eyes go wide. _Uh-oh_ _, so he_ did _hear me. Ohhhhh,_ please,  _please, p-pretty please_   _don’t tell Mother._ He shook his head in denial.

“Do not lie, boy,” Father snapped. “I am not deaf nor dumb,”

Insistently, Atreus shook his head some more, eyes watering. _No, no, no, I didn’t say anything, I promise I didn’t, please don’t tell Mother, p-please don’t get mad-_

Father’s sigh was exasperated as he pinched his nose. “I heard you speak,” he murmured, as if to himself. “I am quite certain of that. Why do you deny it?”

Atreus had been caught out, that much was certain. Still, he had to at least _try_ to wriggle out of it, so he shook his head some more then closed his eyes and hoped that Father would agree that this was the end of it.

He heard his Father shifting, hopefully going back to bed. A few moments passed, however, and Atreus still hadn’t heard the creak of the frame. He peeked open an eye to see that Father was still watching, waiting, thinking. And then he said, very strangely, “Atreus…do you know who _Mother_ is?”

Confused, Atreus lifted a shaky finger to point at the snoring figure still in bed.

Father grunted. “Good. And _Father_?”

_Obviously._ Atreus trained his finger on the tattooed man, frown growing.

“How many winters have passed for you?” Father went on.

Atreus’s pointed index finger was joined by three others, totalling four. _Oh, has he forgotten how old I am? Is that why he’s asking? That’s a bit silly, he_ could _just ask Mother-_

The answer seemed to satisfy Father. With a curious nod, he stood up from his crouch and finally sat back on his bed. “Go to sleep, boy,” he ordered. “You are too old now for naps in the day,”

Atreus couldn’t agree more, but it was _Mother_ who kept him bundled up in bed all the time.

He bit his tongue until he was wincing to keep himself from saying so. Atreus didn’t want to cause problems. He didn’t want to make Mother sound bad to his Father. He just wanted to be a good boy who pleased his parents and he wanted to do everything necessary to make them love him. That meant doing as Mother said, all the time, and staying quiet when Father was around ( _especially_ when Father was around).

Not long after Father had retired (again), Atreus closed his eyes and managed to find _some_ respite from the pain in his back in his wonderous dreams and imaginary adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's Part 1! I'll hopefully have Part 2 finished by tomorrow evening (Friday).  
> I hope the way that I've presented Faye isn't overly-sensitive or feels like I'm demonising mental health issues; I understand that the topic is serious and I did my best to write it out with some consideration. Faye becomes a terrible person when Atreus is born - she changes completely and does horrible things to him, and that's the AU plot. I'm just really hoping no one thinks that I'm in some way demonising mental illnesses, as that's definitely not my intention. Idk. Maybe I'm overreacting about it hahaha.  
> Let me know if anyone's got any more one/two/three-shot ideas (this plot was a suggestion) - I've got one more thing I'm working on besides this, but as all this is my main distraction from university I'm gonna need more prompts lol.  
> Hope ya'll enjoyed and have a nice day :)


	5. Loathed and Loved - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 - Atreus grows older, Faye grows in her resentment, and Kratos is basically just a sad/angry old man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the later update than I'd promised. I woke up Friday mildly sick and got pretty worse over Saturday. Thankfully I woke up better today for my 7hr work shift and my final edits on this.  
> Also, I got the Leviathan Axe tattooed on my arm. I posted a pic on my tumblr (@hedgehodgy) :)  
> Thank you to everyone who's read/kudos'd/commented! Hope you enjoy Part 2 <3

It was difficult for Atreus to tell the difference between right and wrong.

The main reason for it was that he knew no better, and he trusted his Mother’s word implicitly. When she told him that it was wrong for him to be out of bed for more than an hour a day, he trusted her. When she told him that he was retarded, mute, permanently weakened by his constitution, he trusted her. When she told him that fathers hated talkative sons and that the distance between child and parent was _meant_ to be far, he trusted her.

But then, his dreams told him differently. His dreams told him that it wasn’t right for Mother to hit him as she did, with straps and sticks and whatever else she could get her hands on (if not her hands alone). They told him that he wasn’t retarded, he wasn’t mute, he wasn’t always as sick as Mother said – he was in fact quite smart, because kids his age weren’t often so adept at reading and writing and learning other languages.

And between his Mother and his dreams, Atreus didn’t know what to believe. Neither had any reason to lie. Both were good to him, both just wanted the best for him – just in different ways. At the end of the day, however, Atreus always went with his Mother. Even he, a ‘ _retard_ ’, could figure out that siding with the opinions of his own dreams over his Mother would do nothing to make her love him.

As Atreus got older, that had quickly become his main aim in life: to make her _love_ him.

He knew what love was because he loved a lot of things himself. He loved the forest, the trees and the snow and Earth underfoot. He loved the little critters that lived all around, from the hares to the squirrels to the mice and badgers and even the deer and boar and every kind of bird ( _ooh, and_ especially _the wolves)_. Atreus also loved to read. He did so in secret, every night, plucking one of Mother’s many abandoned books from their hiding spots under the floorboards – he’d found them when Mother had trapped him down there one time, along with some other curious objects which Father had made explicit not to touch.

Atreus had read a lot, a _lot,_ of books. He knew all the stories about the Giants and the gods and the monsters and the Nine Realms. He knew a bunch of different languages and scripts, teaching them to himself (with a little help from the bodiless voice which sometimes entertained his dreams) under the cover of darkness. Atreus had just recently been trying to improve his own script, using sticks to carve letters into the dirt. He made sure to pick spots where he could hastily wipe them away again when Mother turned her attention on him.

And that was what Atreus did now. He walked circled around their little homestead, bored and cold and _bored_ , relishing in some freedom from the confines of the house. He kept his ears pricked for any sounds Mother was making behind him as she worked on her garden. Sometimes, when he did something wrong, she would stay very quiet and watch him until he finally noticed her doing so. Then she would get angry for his ignorance and lack of attention and – well, she’d get angry. So Atreus balanced his focus between her and his circular path.

Sometimes, when he was out of Mother’s sight around the other side of the house, he would stop to grab a stick from the ground and squatted down so he could practice his runes in the dirt. He’d go about it quickly, so Mother wouldn’t notice his absence, and would then walk over them and pat them down with his feet until they were gone again. He was trying to spell his name – trying to figure out which way was the right way.

Atreus very rarely heard his name being spoken out-loud. He was more often referred to as ‘boy’ or ‘child’, by both his parents. Mother called him other things, too, when she was in her worst moods. It was only when Father was home that she called her what seemed like _nicer_ things, in a far softer tone. His _proper_ name, though, had only been spoken in arguments between them as far as Atreus could remember – when they didn’t think he could hear them.

As he walked, Atreus muttered, “Atreus. _At-tray-us. At-trey-oose. At-try-us,_ ” He couldn’t remember which one was the right pronunciation. He tried to scratch all the different spellings into the dirt but couldn’t decide which was _correct_. Matching spelling to speech was definitely one of Atreus’s weaknesses.

Eventually, Atreus scratched in ‘ _boy_ ’ and paused to look at it. He nodded in resignation. _I think that’s the best I’m gonna get. ‘_ Boy’ was short, simple, and familiar. _Yeah, it’ll do._

Just as that thought occurred to him, he heard movement. Mother gave a huff and a groan and her bones clicked as she – presumably – stood up from her work. Atreus immediately stamped out the word, tossed his stick into the brush, and rushed back around the side of the house.

Too late. Mother’s eyes were already scanning the clearing, narrowed intensely. They landed on Atreus and seemed to flare with hateful green. “What were you doing around there?” she demanded.

Atreus shook his head rapidly, _‘Nothing!’_ , and scurried to her side. He leant down to grab her basket of greens for her, a silent offer to carry it inside while she kept working. Unfortunately, his reverence wasn’t enough. Mother pushed him aside and marched away, towards the side of the house where Atreus had been loitering.

He cursed himself over and over and over for the short time that she was out of sight, desperately trying to hold back tears. _Stupid, stupid_ , he thought to himself. _Why do I have to always be bad? Even when I don’t mean it?!_ By the gods, Atreus hoped that he had wiped away the runes properly. If Mother knew that he’d been looking at her books and learning to _read_ and _write_ without her permission, then she’d totally-!

Mother reappeared and Atreus snapped to attention, hands holding the basket of greens at his front, his back very straight – a contrast to his knocking his knees and respectfully bowed head. Mother was soon in front of him and grabbing his chin, wrenching his face up to look at her, her grip bruising.

“What are you plotting?” she snarled, her eyes had that _look_ in them again, as if she were a wolf gone feral with no restraints or concerns. “You think you can fool me, do you? You think I don’t know your mind?”

_No!_ Atreus wanted to shout. He wanted to scream, _no, Mother, no, no, I love you, I’m not plotting anything, I’m trying to be good, I always want to be good, I just get bored and distracted and I love to read and I want to write my name but – but – I want you to_ love _me. I_ need _you to love me, please, Mother-_

“I’ll catch you at it one day,” Mother whispered, her voice suddenly distant and faint. Her temper was like fat burning over the fire – one minute it was spitting and crackling, the next it was relatively quiet and unassuming (but still pretty dangerous, _explosive_ ). “And by the gods, you will regret it when I do. You will rue being born,”

Secretly, as Atreus lowered his head again, he thought, _I already do._

Mother’s scolding wouldn’t be complete without a physical blow. Her hand knocked Atreus to the ground with a cry, old bruises and sores flaring up with pain as he hit the floor, the basket of greens tumbling everywhere. Atreus clamped his hand over his mouth quickly, wary that making _any_ noise would just make Mother angrier, and then she would hit him harder, and then-

Suddenly she was touching him, holding him, helping him to his feet. “Oh, you clumsy child,” she said loudly, brushing a bit of dirt from Atreus’s face. Her hand batted away his, the one covering his mouth, and her eyes were telling him, _do as I say._ “Are you alright? Let me see what you’ve done,”

Delicately, Mother tilted Atreus’s head to the side, fingers soothing over his newly-bruised cheek. Atreus would have leant into the rare touch, if not for his confusion. _Why is she-? Oh._

Then he heard it, the footsteps. The big, heavy, familiar footsteps. They were moving faster than usual until Father came into view at the gate, dragging a dead deer after him. He stopped suddenly when he saw Atreus and Mother, his shoulders seeming to drop as they lost their tension.

Okay, it made sense, now. Mother must have heard Father coming before Atreus did, and she’d said for a long time that he shouldn’t know about the necessity of his punishments.

“What happened?” Father asked, dragging the dead deer to just within their fenced clearing before abandoning it and coming nearer. He must have heard Atreus’s cry, then, and he’d hurried the rest of his way.

Oh, boy, did _that_ make Atreus feel nice and cuddly and warm. Father had _hurried_ when he’d heard him shout in pain. That was – that had _never_ happened before, it was – what did it mean? Did it mean anything? Was it good or bad? Atreus didn’t know, but it was making him feel like smiling.

“Our clumsy son only went and tripped over his own feet and managed to knock his face on the ground,” Mother said with an edge of fondness to her tone. “How he managed it, I do not know. You feel okay?”

Mother cupped either side of Atreus’s face as she asked him this, seeming so kind and gentle. Atreus’s smile wasn’t as fake as it usually was as he nodded in confirmation. _I actually feel pretty_ good, he wanted to gloat.

Father’s attentions in his direction were no longer apparent; he and Mother were soon greeting each other properly, as they always did, and Atreus walked away to give them some privacy. They both _loved_ privacy. For a long couple of minutes, the brief thought of Father running to his aid because he was in pain kept him warm and happy. He was about to wander willingly back into the relative warmth of indoors until the call of, “Boy,” stopped him.

Turning around, Father was suddenly there, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a little parcel in his massive fist. He pressed it into Atreus’s hand, then made Atreus hold it to his face.

“Keep it there,” he instructed. “Else the mark will swell and bruise. Understood?”

_Yes, sir._ Atreus nodded once, smiling still. _Ohh, this is a good feeling!_

“Good. Inside with you, then,”

With the snow against his cheek, Atreus obeyed and slipped through the door. He clambered back into his bed, nestling himself amongst the furs, and chose to think on the whole situation. Thinking on it was a mistake, however.

Thinking on it made him wonder what Father would say to the pain he endured typically. He didn’t think that Father was running the rest of the way home because he _liked_ the sound of Atreus’s cry, that didn’t seem right. So he must have run because he didn’t want Atreus to feel the pain at all. Atreus found himself tracing the scars dotting his arms, the ones that Mother blamed on his _clumsiness_ , as with everything else she made him endure and suffer.

Atreus wondered whether Father would run over like that if he ever heard Mother beating him, or whipping him, or cutting into his skin with her knife, or force-feeding him ‘medicine’ that just induced horrible sickness. Mother said that Father didn’t have to know about that, shouldn’t _have_ to worry about it all. Was that just to spare him the stress of having to think about Atreus’s bad behaviour, or was it because she knew that he would run to stop it?

Atreus had no idea. And he was quickly scolding himself for wondering. _I wouldn’t tell him anyway_ , he decided. _Because it_ would _cause stress, for all of us. Mother especially. If I want it to stop happening, I just need to be good._

_I just need to be good_ all the time _until Mother loves me. It doesn’t seem so hard, it-_

 Just stop thinking about it. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

* * *

 

The more Faye looked at the boy, the more she saw herself.

He had had her colouring since the day he was born – the red hair, the blue eyes, the pale skin, the smattering of freckles across his nose. Faye had hoped that his face would twist into something harsh and hateful as he grew older, to mimic his father, but no such thing had happened. No, the boy had _her_ face. Her lips, her cheeks, her jaw, her brow, her eyes – they reflected _Faye._ All that she could see of Kratos in him was a very strong chin and – when it appeared – a very fierce glare. What made it all worse was that the boy’s features were softer and rounder than any of hers. It reminded her of his youth, his innocence.

_Seven winters have passed since I birthed him,_ she brooded, watching him sleep. _Seven whole winters. He grows stronger everyday. His sickness plagues him less._

_Kratos will not see any excuse to keep him confined to the house within a few winters more. He aches for him to be ‘_ ready’ _, I can tell. Already he nags at me to show him how to use a knife._

Faye did not argue with her husband often – they got along well, despite their equally strong personalities – but it was over the boy where they clashed the most. It agitated Kratos for the boy to be as helpless as he was; seven years old and not even able to hold a knife. It agitated Faye more to picture the child learning to wield such a weapon. Even a small lesson in self-defence could bloom into the boy become a warrior of unimaginable power.

She pictured the slumbering child in a pool of blood, surrounded by dead bodies and nesting happily amongst them, pleased with himself. He shifted in his sleep and she saw the ground cracking beneath them both, the depths of the Earth opening up and readying to swallow them whole. Where would Faye go when she died, after what she had done? She had mothered and raised the Dread Wolf; she lacked the strength of her ancestors, unable to kill it off. It was ridiculous, pathetic, weak. She had thought her burden would ease as the boy grew up, expecting his health to stay in a steady decline until he – at long last – passed.

_Oh, but no such thing has happened. He has only become stronger over the years._

She’d done everything in her power to whittle him down to the bare minimum of a living being. He did not speak, he did not read or write, he had no physical strength as he lay so often in his bed. He was obedient to her, always leaping at opportunities to please her, no matter how small the task was. She hoped that all of this had, by now, broken down his mind – as if his mind were a plot of land, and Faye had salted it and burned it and flooded it it so that there could never be any way for seeds of evil or cunning to burrow and flourish.

If the boy had no independent thought, then he could never take the steps to include Ragnarok.

Faye was leading them both up to a day when she could take the child out into the forest, ‘hunting’, and stage some sort of event. She would ensure that the child was lost forever and make it look like an accident – make it _feel_ like an accident, so at least then she could not be tormented by too many atrocities when she passed. It would take some time to plan and carry out, as she had to be certain to keep Kratos from the picture; he had to be gone on a long hunt, he had to be very far away – so far that she had an excuse for not screaming for him to help them when the ‘accident’ was to happen. For that to be their situation, Faye was waiting for some kind of news to reach their corner of the woods of a prey great enough for her husband to pursue without mercy.

That was what Faye was waiting for. But, for now, she had only this: a silent house and a slumbering child. A child who looked so much like her, their faces growing more similar every day.

Faye didn’t even remember herself picking up her knife until it was hovering over the child’s face. She tilted her head curiously, gazing down at his skin, tracing a pattern with her eyes. Like a blank canvas – what sort of art did she feel like making? What would be the best approach? How could she explain how it appeared when-

_Oh,_ Faye quickly thought, lowering the knife. _Oh, now, I can’t do it in_ here _. Not with all the blood._

Tucking her knife into her belt, Faye leant down and scooped the boy into her arms, cradling him against her shoulder. She felt him wriggle a bit, humming quietly as he was awakened. Faye shushed him, carrying him outside, glancing around at the dark forest and wondering where best to act. The boy went stiff in her arms as she walked with him, clearly awake and clearly wondering what was going on – but knowing better than to ask. _Good boy,_ Faye smiled next to his hair. _I taught you well._

They eventually came upon a small, dark clearing some minutes away from their home. Faye came across it accidentally, but it would serve its purpose nonetheless. She lowered the boy on to the snowy floor, propped against a tree. His blue eyes were like beacons through the dark, clueless and questioning. For the briefest moment, Faye felt her heart stutter, uncertainty coursing through her.

Then, the boy’s lips moved, mouthing, “ _Mother?_ ” at her. It made her shudder, made her feel nauseous.

“Quiet,” she ordered, her tone harsh at first. Then – as she couldn’t be a _complete_ witch – she added softly, “Close your eyes, boy. I will make my work quick,”

The wind was howling, blowing away Faye’s tracks through the thin layer of snow. _Perfect._ Atreus hesitated for a few moments, staring up at her still, before he swallowed and nodded and closed his eyes. Faye felt herself smile, oddly endeared by the doubtless obedience. It was just about her only reassurance that even though the boy was a monster, he was _her_ monster, under her control.

_A monster,_ her mind repeated, her body moving of its own accord as her knife reappeared in her grip. She brought it down slowly over his face, blinking and seeing an imaginary stencil already stamped out across his skin to guide her hand. _I cannot continue to look at him as he looks more like me; he must become…_

Her thoughts tapered off, enamoured by her task. The first kiss of the knife’s tip against the boy’s skin, starting on his cheek, provided Faye with an indescribable sense of bliss. As with every time she hit the boy and felt him wince, she wanted to smile and congratulate herself: _you did it, good. You must be strong. You must be selfless._ The boy didn’t wince right now, feeling only a tiny cut on his cheek, but the droplet of blood the cut produced was enough to kick-start Faye’s excitement. Seeing the blood was like taking a drug; she’d had a little and now she needed more.

Faye went slow at first, cutting a long line up towards the boy’s eye. As her knife dragged, his mouth pursed, lips quivering, eyes squeezing shut. By now Faye knew the boy’s tolerance for pain well enough to know when it would become too much for him to keep quiet. So, she relished her slow pace for a couple of seconds, pressing the knife deeper into his skin, and waited for his first whimper.

_And…there it is_ , Faye finished her line at the apex of the boy’s cheekbone. The three-inch cut bled profusely, and it wasn’t even deep. It probably wouldn’t scar that bad. But the boy whimpered anyway.

The sound was like a signal. Gripping her knife tight, Faye sucked in a breath and reminded herself to work fast.

With that, she began to hack at his face.

The boy’s wails immediately filled the forest. Faye made sure not to _stab_ with her knife, only to slice and carve. She pinned the boy to the floor with her knee at his neck and gripped his hair with her free hand, holding his head still so that she wouldn’t stray from her imaginary outline too bad. Her knife dug deep into his cheek, parallel to the shallower cut and continuing past his eye – just barely missing it – and up his forehead. He jerked his head just as she was working on the lower half of his face, a chunk of flesh being accidentally carved out.

The boy was thrashing and kicking and screeching, his unused voice sounding as if it was being tore apart by its volume. Unsurprising, really, he had never endured pain such as this. He still had trouble staying silent when Faye whipped his back (though he _was_ improving with every ‘session’ of theirs).

His screams were loud enough for Faye to have to rush her work, adding some quick gashes to his right cheek before dropping her knife and picking him up. As soon as the boy was in her arms, the instincts that she had been supressing for so long flared up and immediately she was weeping at her child’s pain. She stood and raced home with him, crashing through the trees and tripping over roots in her panic, whispering comforts into his ear as he burrowed his bleeding face against her shoulder. Her clothes turned wet and hot as blood soaked through them, the boy’s screams dying down from shrieks to keening cries and heavy sobs.

Kratos had been gone on his hunt for a few days; he was due to return soon and was undoubtedly close to home by now. If he hadn’t bunkered down for the night to complete the last leg of his journey in the morning – as he always waited until appropriate hours to return home, so as to not wake them up – then he would be walking through the night until he was closer to their familiar forest. Whether or not Kratos was _very_ close didn’t matter, anyway; the boy’s screams would have echoed for miles throughout the valley. And Kratos, being the man that he was, probably knew already that his son was in trouble and in pain.

_He’s most likely on his way_ , Faye thought, using that fact to calm herself. _He will be here as soon as possible – in a few minutes, in a few hours, I don’t know. I need to make this right, regardless._

Faye lay the child on his bed once they reached it, soothing him and stroking back his tawny hair briefly before rushing to her collection of herbs, grabbing what she needed as well as a needle, thread and linen gauze. On the fire she chucked a log to grow the flames, knowing that some parts of his face would need to be cauterized – the chunk missing from his jaw, for example, which was bleeding the worst of all the cuts.

For the next couple of minutes, the rest of the world didn’t exist to Faye. She had her needle and thread and poultices and gauze, and she had a face to stitch back together. The boy had passed out at some point, probably when she had pressed a glowing fire-poker against parts of his face. _Gods, the scars will be numerous,_ she thought, hands fluttering madly over the wounds, working to stop their bleeding and stave off infection. She had to practically straddle the boy and pin his arms to his side and his head between her legs, his thrashing making it difficult to work.

That was how Kratos found them, crashing into the house like an angry dragon. Faye felt a beat of sudden fear as she looked at him, imagining the fire bellowing from his lungs as his gaze turned on his bloodied child.

“What happened?” he asked with uncharacteristic franticness, rushing across the room. Faye climbed from on top of the boy, wiping her red hands on a linen, trying to look as broken and upset as this situation constituted.

“He was attacked,” she wept, her voice shaking. “H-He snuck out, I didn’t even notice u-until he was already gone – I-I heard him screaming but by the time I’d got there he was already-,”

She cut herself off, clamping a hand over her mouth, dissolving into tears.

Kratos distractedly rubbed her arm, but his attention was focused on the boy. He knelt next to the bed and hovered a large palm over his face, his eyes clearly tracing the pattern of the cuts.

Faye waited, sniffling and crying and stroking the boy’s hair, watching her husband from the corner of her vision as realisation dawned on him. “ _Who?_ ” he snarled animalistically.

Faye shook her head and leant forwards, collapsing into his arms. She was exhausted – mentally and physically and emotionally spent – and she wanted nothing more than to be held and soothed. Kratos did so, albeit without enthusiasm, his eyes never leaving the boy. Not even when Faye tried to kiss him through her tears, whispering apologies to him, promising him that she had done what she could but she was sure the cuts would scar-

Suddenly, Kratos was on his feet, pushing her from him. “Where?” was his third question since his arrival.

Faye sniffed, wiping her wet eyes. “I-In a small clearing to the n-north, not five minutes away,” she said. “Kratos, I don’t know w-who did this – I found him and t-there were no footprints or anything, just him and my knife. I-,”

She was going to continue, to offer an explanation – _I think he did it to himself, you know his mind isn’t right, he has no sense nor brains nor logic –_ but he was already gone, moving surprisingly fast for such a broad frame.

Faye, still crying, picked up the boy and settled him on to her lap, singing under her breath and rocking him. She stripped him of his blood-soaked clothes, wrapped him up in furs, and grabbed a couple of rags to keep next to her – to wipe his face every time bloody rivulets slipped down his cheeks. Faye distractedly noticed how the blood filled in the gaps between the gashes and she smiled in satisfaction at how much it resembled a certain tattoo of scarlet.

Kratos was gone for a long, long time, likely tracking his son’s ‘attackers’, not knowing that it would be without success. The boy was unconscious for just as long, only waking up for seconds at a time – at which point Faye would try to coax him into drinking some water, taking in some pain medication. When Kratos _did_ eventually return, he looked no calmer than he had when he left. Faye whispered to him her theory about the boy doing it to himself, dissolving into sad tears again as she did, peppering the boy’s warm forehead with kisses as she spoke.

And, of course, Kratos believed her easily. He pulled up a chair besides the bed and sat in vigil at his wife’s side, both of them watching the sleeping son, both of them feeling _very_ different things at the copy-cat markings now covering the little boy’s butchered face. While Kratos was supressing an unbearable fury, Faye was supressing a smile.

_There. Now we can say that you have your Father’s looks – not mine._

* * *

 

The past nine years had been…difficult. And while Kratos knew that raising _any_ child was no easy task, he decided that raising Atreus had been more of a challenge than most.

Not that he had any right to say so, really. It was not as if Kratos had been present for most of those nine years. No, he had spent most of his time in the forest, hunting game to provide for his little family – meat to eat, hides for clothes, bones and extra bits for medicines. While the hunt was a necessity for them to survive, he knew that he spent more time absent than was strictly necessary. He did so on purpose, to avoid the…difficult, complicated, _painful_ situation which was his home-life.

Atreus had been born sick and weak; he grew up still sick and weak. The bright flame that Kratos had seen as he’d grown from babe to toddler had died out as he went from toddler to child. His muteness, his mental incapacity, his physical limitations, his constant sickness…for Kratos, it was difficult to deal with. As a warrior, he saw a child with no purpose and no future. As a father, he saw his _child_ , and that was all that mattered. As long as he was healthy, happy, what did it matter what he was capable of? Kratos would protect him.

_Until, one day, I am not around to protect him. Until Faye is not around to protect him._

_He will not last long without us – and that is the life we have allowed for him._

But what was the alternative? Giving up, allowing him to die when he was young? Kratos thought of a life without the boy in it and could feel only a hollow pit at the bottom of his stomach. He and Faye had not had another child since Atreus, had not even conceived. Faye bemoaned that the boy must have ruined her womb with his premature birth; Kratos had no plans on setting her side for something like _that_ , however.

Atreus was, in effect, Kratos’s very last chance.

_And yet I spend most of my time avoiding him._

_It is better this way. Better to treasure him from a distance, so he can be spared._

_But what have I spared him from? He still suffers; his godliness clashes with his mortality, rendering him sick. His scars are a gross mimic of my tattoos – a cry for my attention, Faye claims._

There were so many points for and against Kratos’s extended absences, his two internal beings – the Warrior and the Father – constantly battling it out. At least when he was hunting he could distract himself from them; he only had to think about the consequences when he was at home, and he could leave when he liked to hunt again when the debate became too complicated and intimidating for his heart of small capacity.

Sometimes, Kratos forgot that the child was also a god, considering how often he was sick and bedridden and how…well, unintelligent he was. He had not even realised that such mental barriers were possible in gods, but – there was his boy, proving him wrong, sleeping away his life on his sickbed and spending his waking hours messing with old wooden figures and drawing shapes in the snow, incapable of anything else.

Kratos hated it. He hated how the child would always be that – a child. He could never be a man, could never be a fighter or a hunter or a traveller or anything else that he wanted to be. He hated how resigned his wife was to such a fact. She snapped at Kratos’s every attempt to try to expand the boy’s horizons, fiercely protective of him and his innocence. _He suffers everyday with what he is_ , she’d said to him. _Why taunt him with what can’t be?_

Every now and then, Kratos felt a flurry of irritation towards his wife. She had dismissed him totally when he told her, many winters ago, of the boy talking in the night. It hadn’t been a tongue that he could recognise nor identify, so Faye simply said it must have been gibberish. Nor did she believe that the boy had any comprehension of things such as his age, his identity, the people around him. She said that he could not distinguish such things – that everything was the same to him, his life all part of the same monochrome palette.

Kratos could not argue with her when he knew that she had raised the boy herself, that she recognised things about him that he never could. He could only doubt in secret and hope that, one day, the boy would suddenly break out in conversation and pick up a bow and fill Kratos with the pride that he was longing to feel deep inside his soul-

And just as he thought that, a red-haired child appeared between the trees ahead of him.

Kratos immediately paused, halted in his tracks by the sudden appearance. It took him a few too many seconds to conclude that it _was_ the boy, for certain. It was _Atreus_ , wandering through the forest, kicking at the loose dirt-covered ground, his blue-tinged lips moving as if he were mumbling to himself. He did not notice Kratos, even though he was just a few feet away – distracted, as usual. Kratos scrambled to remember a time when he’d seen his son beyond the fences of their little homestead.

He could not think of any. The only time he had even heard of Atreus leaving the homestead was when he had gained those brutal scars on his face, which had faded to pale pink lines after two winters had passed.

“Boy!” Kratos barked, anger flaring. Atreus jumped like a startled doe, his wide-eyed gaze mimicking one too, his mouth dropping open in shock at the sight of him. “What do you think you are doing?”

Atreus’s mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water, gaping. No words came out.

“Well?” Kratos demanded, nearing. A quick survey of the rest of the forest confirmed that Faye was absent – though he had already suspected that, as Atreus seemed too caught-out and suddenly guilty-looking to have been out here with permission. Kratos wanted to scold the child profusely, and then to search his person to check that he had no knives on him. Atreus’s act of sneaking off and cutting up his own face still haunted Kratos to that day. His eyes raked the guilty scars and his gut churned.

Not a night had gone by since then when Kratos had been home from a hunt and he hadn’t woken himself up every hour to check that his son was unmoved from his bed. He and Faye reassured one another that it must have simply been a one-time occurrence – a mental break of some sort.

Atreus was as silent as usual, even when being questioned. Kratos simply huffed and grabbed the boy’s arm, tugging him along at his side. “You are lucky it was I who came across you, boy,” he said gruffly. “And not a wolf or some other manner of beast. What would you have done then?”

Atreus’s narrow shoulders shrugged, his short legs struggling to keep up with Kratos’s quick pace. He was trembling in his grip, head bowed, his fear totally silent but also so loud and apparent.

Thankfully, they were not far from home. Atreus had not taken himself on a walk too far from what would be familiar territory to him. With that in mind, Kratos fumed, _where is Faye? What must she be thinking, letting him out of her sight like so? When she is the one who insists he is so helpless._

With that in mind, Kratos tried to maintain a pace which was quick but still steady enough for Atreus to match without stumbling. There was a prick of doubt in his mind that something had happened to his wife, however he told himself that if that was the case, then Atreus would have surely already conveyed as much to him.

_Or maybe not. Would he even realise if something had happened to his mother? Or would he just look at her collapsed body and spend some time examining it in boredom before deciding to go out?_

“Your mother, boy,” Kratos said, his voice finally losing its initial edge. “She is well? Nothing has happened to her?”

Atreus nodded to the first question, then shook his head to the second. Kratos felt a pinch of doubt once again. _He is_ not _stupid; he comprehends more than he is given credit for._ Then he asked, “Did she give you permission to leave the house without her company?”

There was a suspicious pause before Atreus nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously. Kratos grunted. He couldn’t tell whether that was suspicious or honest; he decided to settle on something in the middle. They were almost home, now, so he could simply ask Faye once they had arrived.

Entering the garden, Kratos felt a familiar sense of peace wash over him. It was stupid, it was sentimental, and he was undeserving of it. He couldn’t _prevent_ the feeling, however, and a rather large part of him did not want to even try to hold it back anyway. _It is just a few day’s respite before I leave them again to patrol the forest._

“Inside,” he ordered his son, jerking his head towards the door. “I will stow away my game before I join you both,”

The boy’s nod was once more reluctant, but Kratos paid no mind to it. It was a strangely relieving sight, anyway. The boy’s hesitation, to him, demonstrated his understanding of his actions and the consequences. That was good – and apparently far more than his wife had ever predicted he would be capable of. For that, Kratos had the urge to pat the boy’s back, to show his approval, but considering the context it would only be translated wrong.

Atreus slipped inside the house while Kratos made his way to their small smokehouse, hanging up the hares that were dangling from his belt. He had been displeased with himself for how little game he was returning home with, though the woods had been strangely sparse despite the warmer months. The creatures of the woods were not due to hibernate for the winter for a couple more moons, and yet Kratos had found evidence of such a thing. It sat with him uncomfortably – made him wonder how they were going to get by for the next couple of moons – and if he were a more superstitious man, he’d have believed it to be an omen of some kind.

Kratos had barely separated his hares from his belt when he heard the first shout. He paused, listening, and assumed it was Faye, laying into their son for his lonesome wandering now that it had come to her attention. Kratos felt a _very_ mild bit of sympathy for the child at the receiving end of his mother’s scolding, and an even milder bit of irritation towards his wife for _immediately_ yelling at the boy. She herself was the one who went on about him not understanding half of the things in his life, so it made little sense to scream at a boy who could not fully comprehend her words anyway. _But she_ does _know better than I, in that case._

The second shout came as Kratos had the hares in hand, about to hook them from the rack to skin later, once the business with Atreus had been concluded. This shout, however, was far louder, far _angrier._ Kratos paused again and frowned this time. _No, no I do not think there is reason for_ that _,_ he thought. _The boy seemed to know what was wrong as soon as I caught him, he cannot be so oblivious to his wrongdoings that it warrants-_

And then there was a third shout. This one did not belong to Faye, however – it was the child’s voice, high-pitched and full of fright, full of _pain._ Kratos had dropped the hares and was marching quickly to the house before he could stop himself. A voice in the back of his head informed him that it was probably just Atreus being clumsy, _again_ , and yet he he still felt the need to check for himself.

Kratos was halfway across the yard when Faye began to shout again – and she didn’t stop. He heard, “You _bastard_ child – you dare try to lie, you dare disobey me, you worthless pile of-!”

Kratos didn’t realise that he was running until he reached the doorway to his home. He didn’t realise that he had spent nine years in a humiliating, _horrifying_ state of ignorance until he was looking upon his wife holding their child as if he were some sort of sack of grain. She had him at his shoulders, holding him in the air, shaking him and screaming. Atreus was crying and his eyes immediately darted towards Kratos, catching him in the doorway over his mother’s shoulders. Faye shook him so hard that his head snapped side-to-side.

“FAYE!” Kratos roared, feeling nothing short of utter disbelief.

His yell was too late to stop what Faye was in the middle of doing, unfortunately. Her muscles were already coiling, her arms already moving. Her head turned to Kratos just a moment too late. Atreus flew out of her grasp – as she had intended – and hit the opposite wall with a dull, sickening _thud._ He crumpled straight to the floor, silent.

The following seconds were some of the tensest, some of the most _dangerous_ couple of seconds that Kratos had ever felt pass. His eyes moved slowly between Atreus, to Faye, to Atreus, back to Faye. He could not breathe, at first. And when he did, they were angry huffs of breath, his body dissolving into furious trembles.

“Kratos,” Faye breathed, staring at him. Her eyes were already watering with tears, her anger at their son melting rapidly away, replaced with sorrow. “K-Kratos, you – you’re – the boy didn’t lie?”

“…No,” Kratos whispered, scarcely audible. “No, Faye, our son was _not_ lying,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?  
> Personally I'm not super happy with the 'reveal' I've gone for. It doesn't quite have that dramatic flair that you'd expect - though I feel like in cases of abuse, like this, it realistically wouldn't be dramatic. It's sudden and world-shattering and confusing because everything was meant to be 'normal'. That's what I'm telling myself so I don't delete the last 2000 words and try to rewrite them lmfao.  
> Because I've been ill I've not started much on Part 3. It's gonna conclude this whole 'AU' arc and will probably be pretty long. No saying how long it's going to take me to write but I promise I'll crack down on it until it's done.  
> Thank you again for reading and everything! Sorry for rambling. Have a nice day :D


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